As we slip further into Autumn and the leaves squelch brown underfoot, and the Hallowe'en pumpkins carved with caveman care leer from shop windows, the business bit of the season kicks in. A blank, rather wet weekend, punctuated by England internationals and Grand Prix races gave way to a workaday, wettish week, filled with management-speak and pragmatism in equal measure. Still, that's work out of the way until tomorrow.
Terry, my former newsagent and drinking buddy and mate, has had an offer of a job from a local delivery firm. The only catch is that he needs to do something called CPC Driver training, a course which his prospective new employer has asked him to pay for himself, along with a digital tacho (which admittedly made me think of young Callis off here) which he orders from the Post Office when done. He's booked to do the course in Ipswich on Tuesday 29th, so his thoughts have mainly been engrossed with the training and job this week.
We met on Tuesday night for a swift half, it being Eastenders for Mrs Tel, who, I was (somewhat peevishly) told by Tel "carnt stan' me bein' ararnd when thass on 'cos I 'ate all them soaps - I always manage ter put me foot in it an' annoy 'er by arskin' where Dirty Den is, fings like that". So the pub was a respite from the estuary shouting, the gloom and political correctness of Walford. For a start, it sold booze, and as you know, no-one's ever truly unhappy when they've got a nice pint in front of them and a bag of Mini Cheddars.
Tel told me about the job. It was offered by the manager of a local transport company who deal primarily with deliveries for building supplies and garden stuff. He needed a driver, and knew Tel had a licence ("Seven'n'arf tonnes'n'all, jus' wha' e wanted") and who had been a former customer of Tel's at the news shop ("Righ' up until 'e moved ter Felixstowe a few years ago, mus' be doin' alright to afford a place there"). Tel thought about it all last week and then decided to accept. "Ah like drivin' yer see, an' I'll be self-employed so ah can choose me 'ours and me deliveries'n'that. Iss perfect fer me, a tenner an 'our'n'ah can do the twenny 'ours I wan'ned to". The training is something new, a comfortable adventure he's never tried before. The manager also promised a lot of work so everyone's happy. "Gits me out the wife's 'air'n'all, she's been suff'rin wiv me 'angin' rarnd the 'ouse like a spare wedding tackle at a bar mitzvah".
We met again on Friday night for a Chinese at his place, a celebration of his new job which he felt was a fresh start, away from the confines of a local shop which served local people and from which there was no escape except selling it. The duck-filled pancakes squirted hoi sin sauce over the table mats as Tel used them to explain how the deliveries worked. I got the idea, but didn't interrupt him, as he utilised the cruet set and the crispy chilli beef to show me how he'd be driving back and forth between destination and depot to restock. When he'd finished, he sat back and took a deep draught of his can of San Miguel and looked happy. The chinese got slowly colder as he then thought of something else. I felt I knew enough to run the business after he'd finished.
I asked him to come and watch the game in the pub, and perhaps have a bit of Sunday lunch (they do a great roast beef there) but he declined. He and Mrs Tel were having a weekend staying with Tony, his brother-in-law, in Chelmsford, as it was Tony's birthday on Saturday. They were all going for Sunday lunch at some golf club nearby. "They do a right good carv'ry" said Tel. Tony's ex-wife and kids were also invited. "Be nice ter see Sandy an' the kids, she's geddin' on better wiv Tone these days, reckon they might get back togevver at this rate". He leered, much like one of the aforementioned Hallowe'en masks I'd seen.
So I had a punitive Saturday of washing and cleaning and ironing, watching the footy and the rugby and generally being dull, as I usually am. I went for a mild walk around Alton Water in the afternoon, stopping for a pint on the way home. Then I cooked my evening meal, a Skate wing with capers and butter, served with french fries made in my new deep fat fryer which only needs a tablespoon of cooking oil in it, some heritage carrots and green beans. I ate watching The Hairy Bikers on catch up, marvelling at how insipid my Saturday night was. I had a nightcap, watched Match of the Day and hit the hay at twelve, not bothering with the dull 0-0 between Bournemouth and the scum.
Today was mainly sh*t. I woke at eight, eyes bleary, mouth dry. The bird food was nearly gone, so I refilled the poor, fat little blighters and watched my local Robin attempt to flop onto the bird table, now filled with seed and stale bits of doughnut I bought last week and never ate. I watched the Welsh flail against, and then luckily beat the French in the egg-shaped ball thing that I never really understand. Then I made a big pot of strong tea and nursed a persisting hangover with two Nurofen and a cold flannel on my forehead.
I debated mowing the lawn when I came back with the Sunday papers, but it was wet, and I'd have only had an hour before the game on Sky. Decided to leave it a week instead. The game started, we were terrible and made Accrington look decent, they scored and then won a penalty, we were 2-0 down, I came on here to vent about Edwards and the useless Toto, went back to watch the second half with a very large glass of red, ended up spitting little rivulets of it at my telly as we huffed and puffed, then thought "Christ, roll on Tuesday" when the whistle went. Now, after typing this, I'm seriously considering opening another bottle. I can't face Sunday lunch. I might have a cheese toastie and some Branston later.
Bloody hell. Our unbeaten start ended by possibly one of the worst teams in this league. We'd better have more of a gameplan against Rotherham. A much better gameplan. And KVY back. And Downes. And Norwood. This was the wake-up call, if ever one was needed. |  |
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